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Never Cry Wolf By Farley Mowat

I listened, but if a wolf was broadcasting from those hills he was not on my wavelength. George, who had been sleeping on the crest of the esker, suddenly sat up, cocked his ears forward and pointed his long muzzle toward the north. After a minute or two he threw back his head and howled; a long, quavering howl which started low and ended on the highest note my ears would register. Ootek grabbed my arm and broke into a delighted grin. “Caribou are coming; the wolf says so!”